My Days with Miss Potato Head
by grisly blanco
Summary: AU. In which Jean finds himself encountering Sasha Braus more than he'd like to. — "You're like a potato. Mind if I take my time peeling you?"
1. bad impressions

**Title**: My Days with Miss Potato Head  
**Summary**: In which Jean finds himself encountering Sasha Braus more than he'd like to. — "You're like a potato. Mind if I take my time peeling you?"  
**Pairing**: Jean x Sasha  
**Type**: On-going  
**Rating**: T  
**Warnings**: Language; AU, high school-setting  
**Disclaimer**: I do not own Shingeki no Kyojin.

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chapter one—_bad impressions_

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The girl was strange.

And by strange, he means, like, _fucking weird_.

It began innocently enough. It was his lunch break. He sat on the right side of the cafeteria room, on the second-to-last table in the far back. Its surrounding seats were empty, but that was okay with Jean; he liked arriving early to lunch. That way, he's able to get dibs on food fresh out the kitchen. (More like microwave, anyway.)

"U-Uhm, excuse me, do you want-"

Apparently, Sasha Braus arrives early, as well.

He barely maintained suppressing his disgust. "Just take it already, damn it."

She surprised him when she bent her head so low and so quickly that it nearly banged off the cafeteria table. "Thank you so much!"

Then, to his utter horror, she began tearing at the meat—that she swiped off his tray in, like, a fucking millisecond—and grease began dripping at the corners of her mouth. In the few seconds she managed to eat the whole chicken, he spotted bits of meat in between her teeth and also underneath some of her fingernails.

I mean, it's kind of hard not having to watch in pure fascination how someone of the female species is capable of devouring food at a remarkable pace. Her eating habits probably rival his. Jean felt momentarily emasculated.

"Are you done or what?" he said through his teeth, edging away as her oily hand hovered across his tray and picked up the napkin beside it.

_His _napkin. "Are you serious-"

She cut him off with another bow of her head and said, "Thank you for the napkin." Then she began to gracefully pat her lips and around her mouth, as if she were someone of a higher status that had a royal feast, rather than the role of the gluttonous fool she just portrayed.

"Whatever," he grumbled, deciding not to comment on the fact that she took his only not-proffered napkin. "Get outta here."

She stood and bowed once more, grinning as she did so. Still shreds of chicken wedged inside teeth. "Thank you, Jean."

He grumbled a 'whatever', refraining from adding 'freak', as she skipped off cheerfully like the well-fed, sedated bear she was.

Well, there goes his good deed of the day. He involuntarily shared his food.

"Hello, Jean."

The teenager's mood considerably brightened as he looked from his half-empty tray and into the face of his somewhat-friend, Marco Bodt. "Yeah, yeah."

Marco smiled. Jean, inwardly, was glad for it. The kid was nice. And because he was so nice, Jean didn't have to be nice in order to return his kindness. Or, something like that.

"Point is, go get me some chicken."

Jean was also glad that Marco chose to ignore his odd use of words in the beginning of his demand. He really needs to stop thinking aloud.

Marco nodded, smiling. "Sure. I had just forgotten my eating utensils, anyway."

'_Eating utensils'_, Jean thought, sighing as he stared after his retreating back. _See what I mean? What a nice guy._

Five minutes later, Jean stood halfway from his seat to look for the teenager who's yet to return with _his _chicken. To replace the one that was wrongfully taken from him from the she-gorilla.

Even from such a far distance, he spotted the person he was looking for—with _her_. "Shit, man." He fell back onto his seat and tapped his nose impatiently with the end of his fork.

It seemed like his good ol' buddy Marco was having a difficult time in escaping the creature most equivalent to a pig, who had her hands clasped together in a most likely pleading manner and lips set in a full pout. Marco looked nearly ready to give in. He took a step back; she took a step toward him. He shook his head; her lower lip stuck out further, hoping to wordlessly coax Marco into handing over the chicken. He placed a hand over the meat in question; she bared her teeth and attacked.

Marco was across from him a few minutes afterward. "Jean, I apologize, but Sasha-"

He never had the chance to explain what was already witnessed, for Jean was quickly on his feet and in the face of one Sasha Braus, who paid his newly made presence no mind as she peeled the fat over the meat of the chicken before discarding it on an oily napkin.

She didn't get the chance to bite in before he slapped the chicken breast from her hand.

Sasha blinked, confused. "What-"

"Next time, get your own fucking food and stop mooching off others, you stupid _bitch_."

At that moment, in the dead silence that rapidly overcame the whole cafeteria room, Jean ignored the audible gasps, the hushed, angry whispers.

He could only stare at Sasha's face, with her mouth hung open and eyes widened in shock, pupils darting left and right, trying to prevent an onslaught of tears that were already forming at the corner of her eyes. She spoke, finally.

"O-Oh."

Jean felt like the biggest piece of shit.

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**Author's note: **These two are my OTP. 'Nuff said.

...don't mind the title.


	2. problem: girl

chapter two—_problem:_ _girl_

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If there was one thing Jean didn't understand, it was girls.

Exhibit A: Mikasa Ackerman. Subject was pursued quite carelessly on pursuer's part, ending in one awkward encounter in which pursuer spoke admiringly of subject's hair. Not quite exactly flattered like the typical girl easily swayed by small compliments, subject accepted compliment with a nod of her head and quick turn on her heel. Pursuer was left projecting a brooding aura and compelled to touch a random bystander's back—which he did. Connie still feels wary of him.

Any other girl was out of the question, as Mikasa remained to be his one love interest—until his sophomore year he begrudgingly accepted her obvious affections (not blatantly obvious, for she is a subtle woman, this graceful woman of his—but still annoyingly obvious, either way) toward one Eren Jaegar.

In a fit of rage (mental, of course, for he must maintain a composed image) Jean began pursuing girls in the same high school he attended. That way, he reasoned, school work can be done, as well as sparing his yet-to-be-obtained girlfriend some time. Then, he can walk her home, as the obligatory boyfriend should do, and go home in satisfaction, for both student- and boyfriend-duties would have been accomplished.

Spring of sophomore year, exhibit B: Christa Renz. Small, blonde, blue-eyed, and undeniably adorable. Subject was not obtained due to subject's protective, scary, dyke-friend, Ymir. Said companion of subject threatened to further elongate pursuer's face with disturbing stretching methods involving the use of various tools (that should not be used nor put within reach of the woman) for attempting to hold subject's hand on their first date, to which she nearly fainted from.

Winter of junior year, exhibit C: Annie Leonhardt.

...Jean wishes to not even think back on what a complete fail it was in attempting to court Annie Leonhardt.

Exhibit D through K consisted of random girls he dated throughout the other half of his junior year, as well into summer vacation. No relationship worked out, and ended, in almost every break-up, disastrously. He still cannot get over the fact that one ex-girlfriend threatened to beat his cat with a shovel, because she couldn't bring herself to mangle such a gorgeous face.

The nerve of some people.

(Connie insists that she would have beaten his cat had his mother not opened the door— the door he used as a safety barrier between the crazy woman— to their home and forced him to resolve whatever the hell was left to resolve of a break-up. Jean wisely ignores all of this.

His cat is still alive.)

Before he knows it, it is winter and Jean is already a senior. Still an asshole, and no new girlfriend.

Life is pretty unfair at the moment.

"Life is unfair."

"What?"

Jean jumped at the voice. The coffee he was holding in his hand tipped slightly, and he cursed as the scalding liquid grazed the top of his hand.

"Shit! That fucking burns!" he managed to hiss out, eyes scanning the small square table before him for a napkin.

"Here, take this," the same voice from moments ago said.

His eyes widened as he registered the familiar voice. His surprise was barely contained as he looked over his shoulder to see Sasha Braus, her extended arm reaching over to hand him a few napkins.

"T-Thanks." Shit. He doesn't stutter, damn it. Jean took the napkins, and used one to wipe his stained hand. Then, while he began wiping the small spill of coffee, he became very aware of the woman taking a seat in the table right next to him.

Out of all the fucking seats in this dead café. Granted, it was small, but there were two other available tables, and the one other customer was sitting at the stool situated in front of the counter. But. _Still_.

Jean cleared his throat, and returned his attention to the book at the corner of his table. Inside contained his homework assignment. He should really get to doing that.

"Uhm."

Shit. She spoke. Mentally, Jean prepared himself. He remembers the last time he and Sasha made contact, a few years back in freshman year, when he insulted her and her eating habits, nearly made her cry, and rightfully earned the title of 'epic-piece-of-shit-asshole', courtesy of just about the whole school population.

But, just as about everything that occurs in high school and is made out to be a big commotion, it blows off just as quick. A few months later, everyone forgot about it. People had petty arguments, there was the occasional couple caught screwing around in the drafting room, teachers hate the students, and Jean has yet to raise his grade in English.

People move on. Jean moved on. Sasha did, too—he thinks. Well, it seemed that way. She still eats; she still bothers others into giving up their food. She drools in class, even if she's not sleeping. She's still fucking weird.

_Maybe prettier. No need to deny that_, Jean thought, as he cast suspicious eyes over the brown-haired woman who's yet to speak. Her hair was down, the ends curled nicely and reaching just above her breasts. Her bangs were pulled over her head, and held back by a red clip. She wore a plain green long-sleeve, a light-orange scarf with floral design around her neck. Blue jeans. Brown boots. Light coating of pink lip gloss. Smelled good. She's staring.

Shit. Avert eyes. He did.

_Potato girl grew up_, he nodded inwardly. But she's still that—potato girl. There's nothing more to that.

Right now, she may have the guts to finally yell at him, call him a douchebag or something more demeaning, for what occurred a few years ago in the lunchroom at school. He'll finally get confirmation, and have another person added to the list of those who hate him. However, Jean will accept it, and move on.

Jean stared at the brindled liquid in his cup, bitter and black and completely unfavorable to most that prefer the opposite. Bitter and black and so unappealing. What good is it, to add artificial sweetness and all that unnecessary flavoring and shit, anyway?

His reflection is contorted in the liquid before him. What good is it, really.

"I'm sorry."

His brow furrowed at her words. "What?"

Sasha offered him a small smile. "I-I could have sat anywhere else, but I usually sit here, by the window. It feels nice."

"It's...fine?" he heard himself saying. Well, that was not what he expected.

She nodded. "Thanks, Jean."

'I'm sorry' and 'thanks'. Where was the raise in voice, the malice laced in her tone? Where were the degrading names that should reduce his male ego into absolutely nothing, a dickless man (metaphorically speaking, of course)? What is going on here.

Sasha seemed more comfortable now, as she fiddled with the handle of her coffee mug, and perused a book she had just opened.

Hm. Black, just like his. But there seems to be something missing...

"You're not eating anything?"

The question was out before he can stop himself. He mentally slapped himself.

Sasha's face colored visibly. Her fingers stopped toying with the handle, and hastily gripped it instead. Self-conscious, all of a sudden. Huh.

"No," she said, smiling uneasily. Her eyes darted upward, and it looked like she wished she hadn't clipped her bangs back, for they would have been great assistance in hiding her gaze from him. "I am not."

"That's odd," Jean mumbled. "Not...hungry?"

She laughed nervously, the flush more apparent on her cheeks now. "N-No, it's not that."

Silence.

_Alright_, Jean thought, _I can work with this. _Deep inside, he had no idea why he wanted to, though.

"No money?" No answer. Silence, yet again.

_Well, this is awkward now—_

"Yes..." she admitted, eyes never leaving her mug. "I spent nineteen dollars and sixty-three cents on three boxes of sushi...I've been craving it lately. And," she sighed miserably, "there went all my money."

He startled her, moments later, after her shy admission, when he laughed. It wasn't restrained, either. He laughed so hard that the table shook and his coffee nearly tipped over again. Sasha looked pleasantly horrified, embarrassed. It was enough to make his laughter come to a stop. Jean cleared his throat, and stood without a word.

"Jean?"

He ignored her, and proceeded to walk to the front counter. He thoughtfully scanned the menu for a good two minutes before he decided on something Sasha-appropriate. When he returned to his seat, he deliberately paid no attention to her surprised expression as he set the chocolate sundae in front of her. It had bits of cookies. Chocolate syrup. Sprinkles. You know, fattening stuff that she'll most likely enjoy.

"You-"

"Just eat it, damn it," he sighed.

"Okay," she relented. Good. She knows there's no point in getting an explanation out of him.

Nodding curtly, Jean busied himself with his schoolbook. He opened it, read the page of contents. Like, twenty times.

"Jean?"

When he turned to look at her, he almost did a double take at the sincere smile gracing Sasha's face. "Thank you."

He shrugged nonchalantly, turning away. That stupid smile should be illegal. "'S no problem."

Silence resumed, comfortable now, as she ate quietly. Properly, too, thank God.

"Though," she began thoughtfully, breaking him from his thoughts, "it would have been nice if you had gotten me something else, preferably with meat."

Jean grumbled angrily at her response, the corner of his lips lifting in just the slightest.

He felt like a huge burden was lifted from his shoulders.

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**Author's note: **I am _not _planning on sticking to the comedic role Sasha usually plays ('potato girl'). C'mon, we know there's more to her than that. Jean will see that too. POVs will alternate between the two, but it's mostly Jean-centric. I just love writing these two.

Thank you for your reviews! And thanks to those who added this to their faves/alerts. Puts a smile on my face, and urges my lazy self to actually write more.


	3. a skeptic and a true believer

**note1: **Hey Jesha fans! I apologize for taking quite some time to update (life is hectic, you know how that be) but I am glad I finally finished this chapter. Thank you, those who reviewed, followed, and added this to their favorites. I didn't think this would garner the attention it has the past few months, so I promise I'll be much faster with updates. LOVE Y'ALL.

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chapter three—_a skeptic and a true believer_

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When Jean received word of Marco Bodt's accident, he didn't want to believe it.

He had received the phone call late at night, a little past two in the morning, from Connie. "Marco's in the hospital." As soon as he had heard those four words, he threw on an old, graying sweater and barely had his left foot in his sneaker before he was rushing out his home, ignoring his mother's cries of concern. The bus was taking quite some time, and Jean was a man of no patience. Into the cold he had run, willing his burning calves to carry on for those three miles.

Once he had arrived, Connie was already waiting for him at the entrance. His look alone made Jean forget about the burning sensation in his muscles, as he was led to the waiting room.

Jumped. Beaten. Stabbed. The words had frightened him; the story including those words had sickened him. Marco didn't deserve any of it. He was just a random victim, blindly sought by a group of men (Titans, as people have frighteningly referred them to), who wave around lethal weapons like play things, and attack any convenient passerby in the dead of night.

"What the fuck was he doing out that late?" he had asked Connie.

Connie's sullen look had seemed permanent as he replied, "'Dunno. Practice, I believe. Was just leaving the school gym. He didn't have anything valuable on him. No money. His phone's been broken for a week, you know that. Just him, his gym bag," Connie gritted his teeth, "and his tennis racket."

"Jumping a fucking school kid," Jean had said in wry humor, "for his goddamn tennis racket. The same one they used to beat him with." He had laughed like a maniac, raising confused—and worried, on Connie's part—eyebrows from others, and as he laughed well into his walk toward the restroom, he fell to the floor as the door click shut, among paper towel waste, and muffled a scream into his lap.

The blow he took to his head was too severe, it seemed, causing widespread damages to all parts of the brain. Surgery was scheduled, but Marco had fallen into a coma soon after. A few days later, he had died, just like that. The funeral came and went, just like that. Everyone at school had talked about it: some girls cried, and guys pinched the brim of their nose in an act of preventing themselves from "crying", each proclaiming the moments they've shared with Marco Bodt.

"Bunch of fakes," Jean grumbled into the dead, chilly air. Currently, he was sitting on a bench, at a park not too far away from his home, recollecting all this bullshit. Two weeks have passed. No one has talked about it, and everyone has moved on. Just like always.

The sound of feet crunching against snow made his ears perk, and he slowly lifted his gaze.

Oh. No one important, really.

"Jean," Sasha acknowledged with slightly raised eyebrows. She stood in front of him, awkwardly, looking very unsure of what her next action should be following her greeting. A cup rested in her gloved hands. Steam emitted from where the lid opening is pushed ajar.

He wondered if she's drinking coffee.

"It's late," Sasha said. She brought the cup to her lips, but didn't drink from it. "And very cold," she nodded to herself, eyes glancing anywhere but on him.

"Yep," Jean agreed, a sarcastic tone taking to his tone. He couldn't help it. He didn't detest the girl. If it was up to him to make a comment on their current type of relationship, he'd settle for acquaintances. Nearly two months have passed since he gained forgiveness via buying her food, and every time he saw her after that, he offered a hesitant hand wave, to which she responded with a reluctant one of her own. She never failed to add a smile, though.

It was no surprise to Jean when Sasha sat next to him the bench. She jumped, shivered, most likely at the feel of the bitter, cold-to-the-touch wooden seat of the bench. His seat—a good two feet of a distance from her—on the other side of the bench, has warmed. _'Cause I've been sitting here for over two fucking hours_, he thought, as he peeled the deteriorating green paint off the arm rest.

"I wrote a paper on death," Sasha said from beside him. Jean didn't respond, and let her gather her thoughts as his own were inquisitive as to where she was taking this particular subject. "I could've gotten a better grade, had my grammar been a bit better."

Jean quietly scoffed in disdain. She was dancing around the subject, baiting him into questioning her, he knew. "I bet. You used to talk weird. Guess it still affects your writing abilities, huh." If Jean really wanted to be candid, he would've allowed his sour mood to lash at her, rather than partake in a conversation that tiptoes around a fairly sensitive subject.

She sipped her coffee, and released a breathy laugh afterward. "Sort of, yes. But my professor enjoyed the material within the paper," she said matter-of-factly, the humor in her tone evident. She set the plastic cup on the empty space between them, and clasped her now free hands together. "Death, in a way, is beautiful. It must be a wonderful escape—a permanent escape. Don't you agree, Jean?"

Without thinking—and utter stupidity on his part—Jean smacked her cup of coffee off the bench, the lid completely removed due to the impact, thus spilling black liquid everywhere, including on her tanned trench coat.

"Shut. The Fuck. Up. Shut your fucking mouth, Braus." His hand gripped the collar of her coat, yanking her toward him. She yelped at the abrupt display of hostility, but did not fight him. He was disturbed when she looked at him with a set of determined eyes, void of any anger or shock she _should _be feeling.

"Why-why should I?" she challenged with unease, her smaller hand coming to encircle his wrist.

"Because you're just a brainless woman who should just keep her mouth shut about matters she knows nothing about. You weren't there; you didn't witness his bloody and deformed body. You don't understand how the fuck I'm feeling, yet you speak as if you do—as if-as if...you knew him!" And that is when Jean paused completely, the grip in her collar slackening, just as his own being was shattering at the sudden realization.

"But...neither did I." The statement hangs in the air, taking its time to settle within Jean. He finally released Sasha, and she casually recovered as she patted a wet area on her coat with napkins she had in her bag. Jean's hands rested on his knees, trying to prevent his body from shaking.

He didn't know Marco—not as much as he should have, at least. He was a friend, yes; a friend who was often there for Jean to lend advice that boost his ego more than it did in actually helping him gain something morally beneficial to his already terrible personality. But that was Marco: calm, levelheaded, with a certain uncanny intuition when it came to reading Jean's thoughts. Too kind of a person, he was. _I took advantage of that_, Jean lamented.

It hit him hard, when he was informed of Marco's death. He was devastated, yet he didn't cry. That sole fact troubled him something fierce, and for days following Marco's death, funeral, and days meant to be committed to grieving and mourning, he sat on the very bench he sits upon now, and thinks, _why_? Does he feel obligatory sadness, because Marco played some small role in his life, a role that Jean never considered meaningful until his death? Cruel. He's a cruel man; _he _doesn't deserve to live. It should've been him, not Marco.

"Your theory...it doesn't make sense," Jean said, after a long moment of silence. He laughs bitterly. "How can it?" He stares up into the cloudless sky, grey and gloomy, with its harsh winds, unforgiving as it lashes against his bare skin that is not covered. "Marco wasn't suffering...he was always pleased. With what, I don't fucking know—life? I guess so. He had no qualms about it. He faced every situation with a damn smile on his face. Took him out one night to sneak in a bar with me, and we come to class with a hangover the next day. Midterms." Jean snorts. "We failed that shit."

At that point, Jean didn't realize the tears forming in his eyes. He blinked them away in anger, and continued, his words choked, "Yet, he comes over my place the next day and tells me he had a fucking great time." He laughs into his hand. "I think his mother hated me."

Jean faces her, his features set into an annoyed look. "How can your theory ever apply to Marco? He lived freely. For these past four years I watched him live freely, without a care in the world, yet with about every care he can spare to anyone, including an asshole like me." His teeth are shattering, and he shouts, "How can his death have been fucking beautiful!?"

"Because he lived a beautiful life," Sasha said softly.

He sighed in exasperation. "I—don't fucking get you," he shook his head, while rubbing his cheek. "You're contradicting yourself, Braus."

Sasha shrugged, eying her spilled coffee. "I apologize for that." She gave him a small smile. "I attended the funeral."

Jean rolled his eyes. "I know. I saw you there."

"He looked at peace. Marco."

"No shit. If they had left those scars and bruises, it wouldn't have been a pretty sight to behold. They polished him up good," Jean said with indifference, although the thought of the funeral made his stomach churn in discomfort.

Sasha hummed in agreement. "That, they did."

_Well, isn't this something, _Jean thought. One moment he's in her face, yelling, and the next they're having another conversation that's civilized to some extent. With Jean, nothing is ever civilized. With Jean, Sasha never seems to act her normal self.

For the first time, he wondered if something was actually wrong with him. Does he make people feel that uncomfortable, that they're unable to approach him the way they do with others? The young woman beside him, in her stained trench coat, red jeans, and worn flats with a knitted cat embellished at the top front of each. This weird woman, with abnormal cravings and a habit of slipping back into her unusual way of speaking. This woman, who smiles so much in the presence of others, yet is so obviously uncomfortable in his.

It's the same with everyone. Marco was his only friend, though Jean never gave anything in return.

"The pain he felt," Jean spoke into the cold air, "it was temporary. Aside from that, don't think he's ever been...in pain, due to whatever the hell can cause such a fucking feeling, physically or mentally. He's always been such a damn," he sighed grimly, "happy kid."

His hands clenched the edges of the bench. "You know what? If I were in his position, death would have been the easy option. A fucking wonderful escape. But Marco..."

"He was undeserving of it all, is what you're trying to say. You shouldn't think too low of yourself, Jean." Sasha exhaled. "Humans should live happily, so when death overcomes them, they die happily, with no regrets. That's what makes it beautiful."

He didn't allow himself to admit just how much that statement finally made sense to him. "How about you, huh?" Jean asks, with no real interest at all—or so he tells himself. "You happy, Braus?"

The brown-haired woman grinned. "I am. And I will be even more so, when I stop by the grocery store on my way home before they close. They always serve free samples!" she exclaimed, practically drooling.

What a weird transition. The damn girl can be serious, even intelligent, then a starved madwoman within the next second. Jean had no idea just how complex of a woman she must be—but the idea intrigued him all the same.

"It's late, Braus," Jean reiterated, rising from the bench. She did the same. "I don't know why you're out alone."

"I don't have a computer at home, so I was typing up a paper at the library. I go through the park to get home faster," Sasha replied casually. Jean almost wanted to remind her of what occurred a few weeks ago, but instead kept his mouth shut. _'Cause I'm one to fucking talk_.

"Right. Well, next time you should ask m—ah, a friend, to go over and use theirs instead. Rather than be out this late and, uh," he stumbled for his words, "shit." He mentally pulled at his hair.

"Oh! You're right!" Sasha punched her first into her palm, laughing. "I'll do that!"

"Good," Jean almost sighed in relief. "We should probably go. I'll, uh, walk you out—well, to the grocery store." _Crap. That sounded horrible_. "Or home? Since you live in the area." _Right. More gentlemanlike_—_and for her damn safety._

"S'okay, my father is picking me up at the grocery store, but thank you for the offer," she said in sincerity.

Jean nodded, and coughed into his throat as he busied himself with his hand on his hip and the other scratching his head, as he searched for the exit of the park. "Shit. I forgot where the exit is. Maybe if we follow this path—uh, what are you doing?" Looking down his left side was Sasha's right arm looping around his bent arm. She immediately retracted her arm.

"I'm sorry!" she nearly squealed. "I thought you were offering y-your...tuna! They're having tuna on cracker samples today!" Sasha pulled her phone from her pocket and gasped. "It's almost ten. C'mon, we gotta go!"

As she took off, Jean spluttered, "H-Hey! Wait, you idiot!" He was quickly at her side, trying to match her pace, but she always ended up a few feet in front of him.

"Hey Jean," she called over her shoulder, the wind taking her hair all over the place, and long, wiry legs taking large steps.

"Yeah, what?" he groused in response.

"You're like a—potato," she breathed out. "Mind if I take my time—peeling you?"

Jean almost paused during this power walk of theirs. "Wait, what? What does that even—no!" In great frustration, he bellowed, "I don't fucking know! Yeah, sure!"

She answered with a laugh that lasted some time, echoing throughout the silent park, until they reached the exit and she then began yapping about the many intricacies of fried food.

Though, at that moment, Jean was sure his reddened ears had nothing to do with the cold anymore.

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**note2: **I hope you all know this fic doesn't necessarily have a set plot; it just focuses on the gradual progression from friends to lovers. I love Sasha. Putting her food-fanatic personality aside, she's just a wonderful, intelligent woman. Not sure if her character seemed too serious in this chapter, but I'm just trying to balance it out. Once again, sorry for the late update, readers!


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